


Rumours and Telephone Calls

by sinesofinsanity



Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinesofinsanity/pseuds/sinesofinsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after Captain Steve Rogers's death, Howard Stark calls Peggy Carter and asks her out for a drink. Peggy instead goes to the Stork Club where she had agreed to meet Steve. She doesn't dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumours and Telephone Calls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/gifts).



> Huge HUGE thanks to kiki_eng for the last minute beta.
> 
> I realize the movie never specifies when Captain America is killed. That's okay.

Howard Stark always telephoned her at the office.

Not that he could call her anywhere else. Peggy Carter had abstained from installing a private line. It was a much too permanent addition for a flat she seemed set on avoiding living in; she was at the office more often than anywhere else anyway.

This time she was meeting with General Howe about operatives in East Germany, and her secretary, a Private Johnson, had to knock twice before she called him in.

“Trans-Atlantic call for you, ma’am” He said, not quite entering the room. It was a code they’d worked out. A call from “America” meant “of political importance, most likely Washington”, “Trans-Atlantic” meant “not political but she’d better answer as it was far too expensive a call for anything unimportant”. With a sigh that was at once frustrated and demure (it had taken longer than she cared to admit to master that one) she instructed Private Johnson to fetch the General some tea, and took the call at her secretary’s desk.

“Hello, gorgeous! You sound more beautiful every time I talk to you.”

“Hello, Mr. Stark. Is this a professional matter? I was in a meeting.”

“The Expo was wonderful, thanks for asking.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Why, yes I am planning something big for next year.”

“You’re tying up a Military Intelligence phone li-”

“Well, I hadn’t thought to invite anyone specific, but if you’d like to come I’d gladly be your escort.”

Peggy pinched the bridge of her nose and counted to five until she could speak without sounding angrier than she actually was. “Why did you call me, Mr. Stark?”

“Old friends can’t just call each other to say good morning?”

“It’s four o-clock in the afternoon.”

“Not in America, and that’s the only time that matters, doll face.” Howard Stark knew perfectly well what time it was, when he was in town he never called her before noon if he was even awake by then. Of course, he also wasn’t calling just to say hello. Not that she could credit him with compassion. Howard had an eidetic memory. He merely recalled that Captain America had died exactly a year ago today and, logically, Peggy Carter would be sad. The rest was convenience and an excuse to annoy the upper brass in two nation’s militaries by tying up the phone lines. He’d once called during a press conference asking her to read off a set of blueprints to a device he had designed. She’d immediately hung up and later instructed her secretary to call Stark’s private line and recite the entire British Military protocols and procedures for office personnel as slowly as possible. Two days later a colourful bouquet had been delivered to her desk.

“I have asked you to call me Agent Carter.”

“Maybe someday, sweet-lips. Anyway, you want some company this weekend? I might just know of a pilot who needs to stretch his wings a bit.”

She smiled at that, probably a new plane. “Thank you Mr. Stark, but I am capable of finding my own entertainment.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t spend Friday night alone.” And he was gone.

* * *

Friday night found her on a brightly lit street in downtown London, walking quite purposefully neither toward, nor away from anything. As she had on other Fridays, particularly recently, she had taken her time with her wardrobe and toilette, rode a cab to the Stork Club, stood on the sidewalk watching excited singles and doe-eyed couples walk past her into the building, then turned away from the lights and music and started down the street. She wasn't particularly aware of her purpose or direction until a man's voice called out to her.

"Peggy, I don't know what he did to make you walk like that, but whoever he is I know a squadron of questionable men who would gladly beat the tar out of him for you."

Howard Stark was leaning idly on the step of a crowded pub. Peggy shook her head, _So he had come anyway._ Well, at least he hadn't tracked her down. In truth it looked more as though she had sought out him. Perhaps it would be better to see a friend this weekend.

"Am I to assume you're one of those men?"

He sauntered over, " Of course not. Do I look questionable to you?" He raised his eyebrows. "Don't answer that. Anyway, I've never beaten the tar out of anyone in my life. Knowing the guys who follow you around, I'm not sure I could," He paused, thoughtful. "Unless he's a politician. Tell me he's a politician and you'll never hear from him again."

She smiled slightly in spite of herself. "He's not a politician."

"Join me for a drink?"

"Repeat offers don't make the invitation more tempting, Mr. Stark." Contrary to her words she couldn't look away from the warm pub. She truly had no desire to still be walking if it started to snow; a few minutes to catch up with an old friend couldn't be too bad.

He followed her gaze and grinned. "Come on," he grabbed her arm and steered her into the building. "The boys'll be glad to see you."

Far from enticing her, this statement nearly made her draw back. Unlike some of her peers who felt that being a woman in a male dominated profession meant becoming "one of the lads", she had striven to balance her femininity with her work-life. As such she had never been out for "drinks with the boys", but based on some of her experiences during wartime, it wasn't an experience she was eager to pursue.

Her protests went unheard, however, and became less insistent, as they reached the door in time for the wind to pick up in earnest; small snowflakes struck her face before she ducked into the warmth of the bar.

A chorus of hellos greeted them as they approached a booth at the rear of the pub. Tim Dugan, Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, James Falsworth, and Jacques Dernier - the Howling Commandos - were crowded around a table with four pitchers between them. Peggy smiled in greeting. This might not be so bad then, she wasn't friends with any of the men as she was with Howard, but she was familiar with them from mission proceedings and military events. Howard directed her to an empty chair and vanished toward the bar.

"This is rather unexpected." She addressed the table at large.

Dugan snorted, "Then you don't know Stark like you think you do. He's been planning this for weeks." Peggy watched in fascination as Tim wove the story, pausing every few sentences to pull at his beer. Apparently each of them was called to London on business and had, through various connections and coincidences, ended up at the same pub. As the Scotsman recounted it, the tale became one of intrigue and conspiracy, peppered with wry comments from the other men when the narrative veered too much to the extreme. When Howard reappeared, bearing another pitcher for the table and a sherry for her, she goaded him into providing his own commentary, as enriched with hyperbole as Dugan's own.

"Since we're all here," said James, concluding the story, "We may as well acknowledge why." He refilled his glass and stood, "A toast: to the Cap, and to Bucky. Any amount of time is too long to be apart from absent friends and a lifetime is too short to forget them."

"Good God man, that's an end of the night toast!" Dugan shouted, though he drained his glass dutifully.

"Let's see you do better then," challenged Jim.

“To Steve and Bucky, the only crazier men are sitting at this table." Offered Gabe.

Jim stood, "The most annoying and the most capable men in the army"

Jacques held up a glass “The best sons of -” Gabe elbowed the Frenchman.

Peggy sipped her sherry thoughtfully. "You know, Steve couldn't get drunk, as a result of the procedure."

Laughter circled the table. "Well it certainly wasn't for lack of trying." Gabe told her. At her expression the man launched into a tale of a bar in Poland where, so the story went, the landlord brewed a hooch so strong grown men passed out drunk from the fumes alone. After a successful "mission" to a nearby HYDRA base, the Commandos had tracked it down. "I don't remember anything after walking into the building, apparently I was embarrassing though, Steve wouldn't tell me-"

"You vomited on your pants.” Supplied Jaques.

"Shut up, you were drunk too. Anyway we all woke up at an inn next town down the road, massively hungover. They'd kicked Rogers out after he finished a barrel of the stuff, and he'd carried or dragged us all down the road. Then he complained all the next day, _loudly_ , 'cause he'd had to do it while _tipsy_!" That sparked another round of laughs.

“Let me get this straight. You had just completed a top secret mission, in a foreign country, on enemy soil, and you wandered over to a pub on the basis of a rumour?”

“Ma’am, you need to understand,” Jim tended to gesture when he talked, but didn’t let go of his glass. Half of his beer spilled onto the table when he pointed at Peggy. A couple of the other men shouted at him for it, but he ignored them with an air of long practice. “First off, after those missions, we needed to celebrate, commiserate, let go of the stress for a bit, go a little wild. It’s just healthy. And secondly, the whole war ran on rumours. That’s how we found most places to drink in. You’d be surprised how many rumours there were about us.”

Howard grinned, “I hear the Turks were calling you the Howlies”

Peggy refilled Jim’s glass. “What sort of rumours?”

A grin split Tim Dugan’s face in half. “Oh, my dear.” He rubbed his hands together, “You’re in for a treat.”

* * *

For the next few hours the tales flowed as freely as the alcohol, which Peggy strongly suspected was paid for by Stark. She heard about a darts competition in a French village that had never had a dart-board before the war, a 300 pound Australian who challenged Steve to an arm wrestle, a team of American pilots with a pet lion, and a pair of Swiss “ladies” with an inappropriate nickname who had kicked them all out of a dance club when Steve had tried out the French Jacques was teaching him. She heard about brawls in Paris, brawls in Vienna, and a brawl in Amsterdam with a pair of brothers known as the Lucky Canucks (“made it out of Dieppe with barely a scratch between them, back on active duty the next day” James reported) that had ended with Steve and the younger brother throwing plates for Bucky to shoot. She heard embarrassing stories, such as the one about Captain Rogers losing his shield on a mission (“whined like a baby, but wouldn’t break orders to delay reporting in” laughed Tim. “Finally Bucky and Jim here slip off get it from what’s left of the HYDRA base. They hand it to Cap and he just lights up like a kid on Christmas before trying to tell them off for breaking protocol.”); and heartwarming stories, such as the Commandos escorting a group of refugees into Switzerland (“made us three days late for check-in, Colonel Philips was convinced we’d finally bit it.”). A couple made her blush. But most, by far, told in an outlandish, hyperbolic, round-about manner, made her laugh more than she had in years.

By the time she excused herself, eyelids drooping, the pub had started to empty. Peggy had monitored her alcohol intake carefully, but none of the men were completely steady. She left a note with the bartender to have the taxi drivers send her the bill if any of them were too far gone to properly get themselves home, and wandered out into the street. The wind had died down, but the snow still fell, drifting lazily to the slushy ground. With no cabs in sight, she began to walk, and presently found herself at the dance hall where she had begun the night.

Twelve months. It was hard to believe. A year since Captain America had asked her to dance. A year since she had danced. Longer since she’d simply sat and laughed with friends. She slipped into the Stork Club. The band was playing an old love song, the few couples left swayed silently in each other’s arms, oblivious to their surroundings.

Peggy sat down in one of the few chairs that hadn’t been cleaned up for the evening. Was it right, that she had focused so hard on her career and her country at the expense of a few frivolities? Had she sacrificed more than romance? Was there anyone she had left behind? As she watched the couples sway and glide to the music, her mind drifting between reports needing finishing and the Commandos’ stories, she wondered how many dancers were with the same partners they would have chosen a year ago. Did it mean so little, this ritual of dance, that men and women would switch out partners like old hats? Did it mean so much?

She could dance now if she wanted. She had, as on other Friday nights, intended to spend the night dancing, forgetting a certain blond American who would never return. But the music and bight colours she thought she had needed had never given her the courage to enter the club. Instead, a group of boisterous men in a pub had finally allowed her to look at her life and ask: was she still waiting for that dance?

“No.” she smiled to herself and continued watching the couples. Tomorrow she might order a private telephone line. Or, a regional commander was needed in the newly British Hong Kong, and she had been in London an entire month longer than usual - surely there were rumours and dance halls in Asia. As long as she could receive Trans-Pacific calls.


End file.
